


Of Lords and Letters

by MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, Austen Tropes, Blow Jobs, Earl Dean Winchester, Epistolary, Estate Steward Castiel, Falling From Society, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Historical Romance, Kissing in the Rain, Lord Castiel Shurley, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Napoleonic Wars, Pen Pals, Pining, Regency, Regency Romance, Secret Relationship, Soldier Dean Winchester, brief descriptions of war, country estates, horse riding, letter writing, love before first sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:33:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: Leading his regiment across the continent against Napoleon was all Dean Winchester cared about, for years. Until his father died, and the Earl of Winchester was needed at home.A letter out of the blue saves Dean from having to face the ghosts that await him at Winchester Hall. Castiel Shurley, who has fallen from the heights of society, makes an exceptional Estate Steward, enabling Dean to keep his position in France for at least a while longer.“A while” becomes a year, and then more, as the war trudges on.But one day, Dean must return home. And there waits the man whose letters have kept him whole while the war took a piece more of him every day.Now, away from his men and his guns, Dean needs a different kind of courage. How does Dean tell Castiel that he didn't return for his title—he returned for him?
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor Sam/Jess - Relationship
Comments: 169
Kudos: 531
Collections: SPN Regency Big Bang 2020, The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, lovely readers!
> 
> I'm back again with a short, harlequin-esque historical romance, for SPN Regency Big Bang. I had a lot of fun working on this one! 
> 
> Thank you so much to mods of the bang for putting it together and making sure it ran smoothly.
> 
> Thanks to my alphas and betas, too: [castielslostwings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castielslostwings), [EllenOfOz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz), [andimeantittosting](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/andimeantittosting). Their talents and patience make my fics possible. And thanks to my friends, [jscribbles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jscribbles/pseuds/jscribbles) and [SOBS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sobsicles/pseuds/sobsicles), who had to listen to me whine about so much of this fic when I was writing it!
> 
> The many beautiful art pieces in this fic were created by [Aggiedoll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/romachebella/pseuds/romachebella). Every single one of them is stunning - you can see the masterpost of them all here. I had such a good experience working with her, please do go and reblog her art post if you can, give her the recognition she deserves!
> 
> One note: this is fanfiction! It's not a paper on the time period. While most things are accurate, some details won't be. By its nature, an alternate universe story like this set back in history is going to have changes. If you're looking for a history paper, not a story, I'm not sure what to advise (books set in the period are often inaccurate also, because they are also _stories_ , but I hope you find something to suit you.
> 
> With that, onward, and I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Mal

On the desk, in amongst the thick cream sheets of orders that Dean had received from his higher-ups, there was a letter. Its appearance was unexpected—he’d sent a note back to Sam only the day before. Even with the military’s fairly swift postage times these days, he doubted that his words had even made it out of the country yet, let alone been responded to. 

And there was no one else left to be sending Dean letters. 

So, who was this?

The direction on the front of the folded paper informed him that the letter was from Castiel Shurley. It was a single page for minimal postage, sealed simply, and bore many creases from its undoubtedly rough journey across the Spanish fields to Dean’s hand. He held it for a moment, squinting down at it, unsure why his brother’s old college friend—who he had never met and only heard of in passing—would be writing to him while he was away at war. It could hardly be a party invitation.

**_The Right Honorable The Earl of Winchester,_ **

**_I write to you on the advice of, or indeed the insistence of, your brother, The Right Honorable Samuel Winchester. I was disinclined to reach out to you without a proper introduction, but Mr. Winchester was quite determined that you would not hold me to any fault for such a lapse in manners._ **

Covered in mud up to his knees, scented like a horse’s arse, and face filthy to the point of misrecognition, Dean snorted. Indeed, his brother was quite right. Dean didn’t often stand on ceremony unless he was forced to.

Working open the buttons of his muddy jacket with one hand, Dean continued to read the mysterious missive.

**_Firstly, of course, I must offer my condolences on the passing of your father. I met him only once, back when Mr. Winchester and I were at Cambridge together, but he seemed greatly proud of you both._ **

Well, if only that were true. Dean’s father had been immensely proud of his intelligent, educated youngest, Samuel Winchester. Once, yes, he had been proud of Dean, too—he’d spoken animatedly of his pride when Dean had gone off on his Grand Tour. But upon Dean’s return, he’d been sullied in his father’s eyes forever. 

“The water is warmed, my lord,” young Alfie said, poking his head through the part in the heavy canvas that was giving Dean some brief reprieve from the stench of the battlefield beyond. “As much as it can be, anyway.”

“Thank you,” Dean said with some relief. He stood, taking his small pile of correspondence with him from his tent. He wouldn’t get much other time to read it, so he might as well take the already-muddy missive with him to wash up. 

**_Mr. Winchester informs me that as the eldest brother you have inherited the Winchester title, and with it Winchester Hall, now that the previous Earl of Winchester has passed._ **

Dean sighed. His new correspondent wasn’t wrong. With his father’s passing, Dean’s courtesy title of Viscount Winchester, already a burden, was now obsolete. Now he was Earl Winchester, and with the change came every responsibility that Dean had loitered on the continent avoiding. 

**_I hope you will forgive me, once again, for being so forward, but Mr. Winchester has also mentioned that in disposition you find yourself better suited to war than to land management._ **

Dean prickled and grumbled to himself as he sank into the lukewarm water that Alfie—Dean’s personal orderly ever since he’d enlisted—had managed to prepare for him, leaving his muddy clothes in a careless pile on the floor. Castiel wasn’t incorrect by any means, but Dean was going to have to have words with his brother. 

**_It is with that in mind that I am writing to you, humbling myself, to offer my services under your brother’s recommendation._ **

**_I will be upfront with you, my lord: My family has, as you have likely heard, fallen upon hard times. My father, the Duke of Devonshire, had gambling debts far in excess of what we had been led to believe during his lifetime, and due to various scandals entwined with our family name, creditors no longer give us gracious terms. It is in the aftermath of this financial fall that I am seeking employment._ **

**_Mr. Winchester, always a good friend and advocate of mine at Cambridge, believes that the help of a dedicated Estate Steward may be of great value to you, as your previous retired upon your father’s passing. If you would, as Mr. Winchester suspects, prefer to remain on the continent until a more reasonable time for your return, then I will offer myself in service to maintain the Winchester estates until you are able to travel home._ **

Dean sat up, causing a wave of water to _sploosh_ loudly over the edge of the slightly rusted bathtub and splash across the hastily planked floor of the officer’s toilette tent. Some gentlemen may have been mildly offended at their younger brother for many things, in this case—the awkward introduction, the presumption, the meddling. But Dean...No, Dean felt that he had never owed his brother more.

With another great _whoosh_ of water, Dean sprang from the tub in delight.

“Alfie! Bring me a quill!”

“And a towel, my Lord?” the young servant offered politely, only the barest of twinkles in his eyes.

“A towel, and paper! And my seal!” Dean’s chest was lighter than it had been in the weeks since news of his father’s passing had reached him. He wouldn’t have to abandon his men, just to pick up the weight of a title he’d long dreaded. 

Dean was a man of action, not words. 

As a Viscount, his title had been merely a courtesy of his father’s rank, so he’d not been called to stand in the houses of parliament. But if he returned to England, without the excuse of war, he’d no doubt be called to stand. It would be expected. Here on the continent, pushing Bonaparte across his own lands—here he didn’t have to worry about any of that. Here, he could earn the respect of his peers and countrymen, not be handed a flimsy imitation of it.

Yes, Dean was very glad that his brother knew him so well. 

***

**_Dear Lord Winchester,_ **

**_I am pleased to report that the estate is not in as poor a shape as you feared. Your father’s previous steward may not have been very attentive, but the rest of the household staff—under Mrs. Harvelle’s watchful eye—have kept Winchester Hall well, regardless._ **

**_There are certain improvements that I believe would benefit the estate…_ **

Wincing at the ache in his shoulders after a long day’s riding, Dean settled himself into the chair before the desk in his room. The French country lord’s manor that his regiment had commandeered was small and quaint but certainly felt luxurious after days on the road. Alfie had just departed for the evening, leaving Dean in his breeches and undershirt to relax with a drink and tend to his correspondence. 

In just a few short months Castiel had already proven himself to be a great asset to Dean’s staff. Dean had soon found himself developing an appreciation for Castiel’s good business sense and fine manners, and was extremely grateful that his estate was in such good hands. 

He only wished that he could know the man himself better—from his letters, Dean found that he could detect the occasional flash of dry wit that delighted him, and while Castiel never strayed far from topic, Dean could already tell that he was a deeply passionate man about the things he held in regard. While a steward could hardly be called a servant, ranking far above any other person in the Winchester household, Dean struggled to know how to connect with a man who was in his employ, despite wanting to. His father, after all, had called his steward a friend for many years. Was it such a bad thing to hope for the same?

And now, here in southern France, each day more desolate than the last, his men weary and dwindling, Dean could certainly use a friend.

Already, his steward’s letters were a light in the darkness of war. He needed that, he wanted more of it—hopefully Castiel could understand that. 

With a burst of bravery, Dean dipped his quill and pulled a sheet of paper toward him.

**_Dear Castiel,_ **

**_Thank you for the updates on the house and grounds. I am glad that you are settling in well, the role seems to suit you. Please, tell me more about each of the projects that you mentioned—the beehives, especially, which you seemed particularly enthusiastic about. Take as many sheets as you like, I will cover the costs._ **

**_If you wouldn’t mind it, I would also enjoy hearing more about you, Castiel. Out here on the battlefields there is little to raise my spirits as the months go on. Please, tell me about yourself? I find that I look forward to your letters, and wiser men than me have said that a man can never have too many friends._ **

Dean paused to bite his lip, suddenly doubtful again, wondering if he was being too bold. He wouldn’t want Castiel to feel obligated, simply because Dean paid his wages and provided the large cottage on the outskirts of the estate that Castiel now resided in. Hastily, Dean added a few more lines.

**_Please, do not feel obligated in any way to humor me, if you would rather not. I realize that asking you to cross such a line of propriety is unusual. If you would rather continue as we are, then so be it. I would not hold such professionalism against you._ **

Satisfied and hopeful, Dean returned his quill to its well and began to fold the paper, tucking in the ends and dabbing wax onto the flap. He pressed his seal into it. The clear impression of the Winchester family crest hardened instantly, and Dean called out for Alfie to come and collect it.

All he could do was wait.

***

**_My Lord,_ **

**_I hope you are well. As the months continue to go by, more and more concerning tales reach us of the conditions overseas. I wish there was something I could do to ease your time away, but until Bonaparte relents, all I can do is help Winchester Hall to flourish in your stead._ **

**_Yesterday, I resolved a minor dispute between two of the grange tenants over the ownership of a pig. The main thing to take from the occurrence is that under my tenure, Winchester Hall will certainly never be a home to swine. The things I stepped in do not bear mentioning on good paper. The disagreement is now concluded, however, and otherwise it has been a quiet week, here._ **

**_You told me that you had loved to ride and hunt in the woodlands beyond the Hall, so I have taken to riding through them whenever I have to collect rents from the tenants beyond, rather than taking the road. Every time I pass that way, I feel like I discover something new. I’m sure you know all the best-hidden spots—perhaps when you return to Winchester, we could ride together and you could show me all the secrets you knew as a boy?_ **

Dean couldn’t help but smile at the friendly, hopeful tone of Castiel’s latest. There was so much unspoken, there—that Dean would safely return to England, that he would be of sound body and mind when he did, that Castiel would remain at Winchester Hall, and that they would be friends. 

Folding the letter carefully, Dean slipped it into his jacket pocket. He knew he would reread it many times before the day was done—he always did. 

Increasingly, Castiel’s letters were a light—perhaps the only light—in the endless, dark and dreary days of war. 

With each week that passed, the death toll rose. 

Dean became hardened not just to the endless riding across country, but to the iron crack of gunfire and the smell of festering wounds, to the sight of haggard faces and empty seats around the campfire that no one mentioned, the lumps in their throats too sore and raw to speak around.

The faces that were _missing_ were much worse than the ones he still saw, as haunted as they were. Some of his men—some of his friends—would never be the same again. 

Dean was used to it all. And he hated that he was.

He hated what war made him—what it eventually made so many men. That he could look at maps and orders and see only numbers, only ranks and positions, because giving them faces, giving them _names_ , that was how he ended up in his tent alone, biting his fist through nightmares and tears that he couldn’t allow the people who relied on him to see.

He told Castiel. In his letters, he told him everything he was afraid of. 

And Castiel continued to write, continued to treat Dean as if he was still worthy. 

It wasn’t much, their strange, epistolary friendship, perhaps. But increasingly, it was all Dean had. 

***

**_Dear Dean,_ **

**_There is little news here that pertains to exact locations, but I suppose by now you are near Paris. People say that this is Napoleon’s last year, that he won’t recover from Elba. I hope that it’s true, for your sake._ **

**_But I know you’d rather talk of other things._ **

**_Sam paid me a visit the other day; he is well, and his wife is as much of a delight as you claimed. Law and London life seems to suit him wonderfully. I took him around the estate, of course, and showed him all of the projects that you have encouraged in the past months…_ **

Stretching his aching legs out in front of the small fire between the tents, Dean did his best to push down a strange pang of jealousy. He wasn’t at all mad that Sam had seen the additions to Winchester Hall and its lands before he had; Dean had always been close to his brother. In fact, he’d already received a letter from Sam with much the same news, excitedly telling him about Castiel’s excellent management. No, Dean was jealous that Sam got to spend time with Castiel, when he could not.

It was a small and silly realization. 

All across the continent, up from Spain and well into France now, Dean had passed letters back and forth with his steward—with his friend. It had taken some time, and some gentle cajoling, to persuade Castiel to use his name, rather than his title. But by now, at least, Dean would certainly call them friends. 

If Dean occasionally wondered what Castiel looked like, what he sounded like, if he smiled when he walked through the woodlands Dean had grown up hunting in...those were secret thoughts for him alone. 

Dean read Castiel’s letter over and over in the firelight, making small talk with a couple of other officers who held in hand missives of their own. One from a wife, one from a girl the man hoped to make so upon his return. None of them, of course, from their steward. One did not, as a rule, reread letters from their staff with such tender affection, Dean realized.

No matter how much he wished he could meet his friend, though, Dean had a duty to his men here. He could no more leave them to fight on without him and skip off back to England than he could assure them Boney was almost done, and they’d be home in a month. He just wasn’t that type of officer; that was why his men respected him.

Instead, he folded the letter up tight, and tucked it back into the inside pocket of his jacket. It would be safe there, close to his heart, until he could return it to the leather pouch back in his tent, with all of the others Castiel had sent him over the many months that they’d known each other. 

***

**_Dear Dean,_ **

**_The new cottage garden is well underway, overseen by Mrs. Harvelle and Miss. Jo. It’s coming along nicely. I hope you don’t mind the second sheet of paper, but I couldn’t resist sending you a few sketches of how it looks set against the back of the house. I’m not much of an artist, but it’s the best I can do for now._ **

**_I hope I can show you the real thing, some day soon._ **

**_In my downtime from the estate, I’ve been reading some exciting new novels. Some of them might grip you, I think, so I’ve been putting aside a small pile for you on your return..._ **

They’d been marching for six days straight, headed for Belgium. Dean was tired. He was tired of war, he was tired of losing good men, he was tired of Napoleon, and he was very, very tired of being alone. 

Castiel’s letters were his connection, by then, to a life he felt like he barely remembered.

“An artist, is she?” called Laffitte from his spot across the breakfast table. 

Dean’s eyes jerked up sharply from his letter, to see the burly Duke’s son gesturing to the pages in Dean’s hand with a warm smile. 

“Your mystery letter writer. Sending you little pictures of home, is she?”

“Something like that,” Dean murmured down into his thin oatmeal, tucking Castiel’s letter safely back into his jacket.

Something like that, indeed.

It was several more hours of setting up camp and listening to his superiors’ attempts to motivate the troops before Dean could steal away for a few moments and pick up his quill. 

The silver nib attached to the trim goose feather that Dean used to answer his correspondence blacked with a tremulous drip of ink as it hovered, unmoving, above the page. There were things he wanted to say, wanted to ask, but knew that he could not. 

It was ridiculous. He could not.

Castiel, it was by then clear to Dean, meant far more to him than a steward, or correspondent, or even than a friend. Dean had long come to terms with his affection for men—indeed, it was his confession of such things that had put paid to his engagement, as a younger man.

No, it was the fact that he had never met this man which was bothering him so much. He was a fool, no matter how he looked at it. So, best that he just not think of it.

Replacing his quill in the ink, Dean pushed away the paper, leaving the letter unwritten. 

***

**_Dear Dean,_ **

**_It has been many years since I spent as much time in church as I have these past few weeks. The rectory might burn down if I light another candle._ **

**_Please, if you are well, I beg you to take a moment to let me know. I don’t ever wish to be a bother to you. I have been both your diligent steward and faithful friend for a long year, but I would never want to be that._ **

**_But not hearing from you keeps me awake at night, Dean._ **

**_Winchester Hall is fine._ **

**_But I am not._ **

**_So please, if you can, just a note. That’s all I need._ **

The thin paper shook in Dean’s hands. How could he have been so selfish? He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, worried that he could be reading so much more into Castiel’s letters than there was meant to be, that he hadn’t stopped to think what taking so long to reply might mean to Castiel. 

What it might make him worry had happened.

Oh, what a poor friend he’d been. 

Immediately, Dean excused himself from dinner with the officers and headed back to the small privacy of his tent, chased only by a knowing look from Alfie, his devoted orderly. 

As soon as it had truly struck him that Castiel was back in England, waiting for him to return, Dean knew immediately what he was going to do. He was only ashamed that it had taken this long for him to realize it.

Without a desk, out in the field as they were, Dean placed his paper and ink on a thin board. He rested it on his knees as he hastily started to write, as if somehow every second counted—though no matter how fast he was, Castiel wouldn’t get his letter for days.

**_Cas,_ **

**_I am so sorry. Please, forgive me for worrying you so._ **

**_I am well. In fact, this very day, upon receiving your letter, I have determined that I will speak to my superiors about returning home. As I should have returned when I became Earl, I doubt they will be able to say much against it, though of course, I must stay until there is a suitable replacement to lead my regiment._ **

**_Your letters have been a light in the darkness of this war, Cas. You have never been a bother, whether you spoke of business, or bees, or books, or any such thing._ **

**_Your words have meant more than I can say._ **

**_I hope to be cleared to return home, soon—I look forward to seeing my brother, and Winchester Hall, and all that you have done to it._ **

**_Most of all, I look forward to seeing you._ **

It was all that Dean dared to say, but he hoped it was enough to convey at least some of the profound bond that he had developed with Castiel since he had come to know him. 

More than that, he could not say—not only through fear of what Castiel’s reaction would be, or fear of the missive being intercepted by prying eyes, but through fear of sounding like a madman. 

What kind of person thought so much of someone they had never met? Who thought every day of a stranger, from first they rose to last they were awake? Someone who they knew intimately, perhaps, but who they wouldn’t be able to pick out of a crowd? A man, bad enough, but a man he could barely describe?

Dean was a fool, no doubt about it. 

But a fool who was done with war, at least. ****

**__ **


	2. Chapter 2

Dean took great pains to think of Jessica as Mrs. Samuel Winchester, but as he’d grown up watching her climb apple trees with her muslin trapped between her knees, it was difficult to think of her as much other than “Jess.” While he’d been on the continent, she had been the closest thing to a Lady Winchester that Winchester Hall had—while she and Dean’s brother spent most of the year in London where Sam practiced law, they spent long sojourns at Winchester Hall, with Dean’s blessing. Sam had grown up there, of course, and Dean wouldn’t turn his brother out because their father had passed—Sam was dearest to him out of everyone in the world, and by extension, his wife would always be welcome.

So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when Dean arrived back at his childhood home to find the large, blocky frontage of the Renaissance-inspired manor looking full of life—windows were pushed open to air out the long-closed rooms, swathes of flowers decorated the front stairs, and people bustled about merrily, so few of them recognizing Dean after his long absence that he felt like a stranger in his own home. 

Jess, of course, was throwing a party.

“Dean!” she called out joyfully, hurrying down the steps to take his hand and squeeze it familiarly. “It is so good to have you home.”

Sam followed at a more leisurely pace, but with no less enthusiasm. He greeted Dean with a wide grin and a slap on the shoulder, his hand lingering and squeezing in deference to their long parting. “It’s good to finally have you home, Dean.”

“It’s good to see you,” Dean greeted them both. “Though I’m not so sure about all these other people bustling about.”

Jess laughed, her freshly curled blonde hair bobbing about her head. “Come along Dean, you know we had to celebrate your return. A small card party, you simply must let me.”

Softening, Dean couldn’t resist her excitement. “I wouldn’t stop you, of course. Though I think you just want to parade me around in front of the local ladies in my uniform,” he said with a quick wink.

She tried to look innocent, of course, but the twinkle in her eye gave her away.

Chuckling, Sam slapped Dean’s shoulder once more and turned, gesturing up the wide, shallow steps that led to the entrance of the house. “Come along, Dean. I’m sure you at least want to eat and rest a little before the party begins.”

Nodding his agreement, Dean moved alongside his brother and sister-in-law. They headed through the wide, double oak doors into the home he hadn’t seen for years. Winchester Hall was blocky and intimidating, but even so, Dean had loved it here as a boy. When he was young and spent his summers here with Sam and Jess and various other children of the local nobility, he’d stocked away many memories of sunny days riding across his father’s lands, evenings eating apple pies baked with fresh fruit from their orchard, and sneaking out with Sammy at night to tell ghost stories in the abandoned barns.

As a child, Winchester Hall had been his refuge. As he’d grown into a young man, it had become an isolating place where he’d felt pressured into a life he didn’t want.

He hadn’t visited since he’d enlisted—he had nothing to come back for, at the time. His brother was happily wed, and he was no longer on speaking terms with his father. With his mother having died in childbirth, and a broken engagement to Lady Braeden—and all the scandal that had involved—behind him, Dean had seen no need to set foot on his family’s estates. Until, of course, they had become his estates.

He knew he should have been here a year and a half ago. But now, feeling the cool air of the huge, lonely house overtake him as his companions chattered their way up the stairs, Dean couldn’t regret his absence.

The house felt different than it had when Dean was young. Now it was his, and when Sam headed back to London, he’d be alone here.

If Castiel hadn’t written to him, hadn’t brought to the forefront of his mind the fact that there were people who still cared about Dean, worrying about him as he fought the French…would he have come home?

He wasn’t sure.

“Will Mr. Shurley be joining us tonight?” Dean asked Jess as they led Dean to what had once been his father’s rooms.

“Of course,” Sam answered for her, smiling. “He has been very eager to meet you.”

“I understand that the two of you have corresponded,” Jess said, nodding eagerly. “It would be remiss of us not to have the both of you get a proper, face-to-face introduction as soon as possible.”

That they had “corresponded” sounded cold, impersonal, and like a drastic understatement…but it was true.

Dean was once again struck with the reality that he hadn’t met Castiel. He only had the vaguest idea what he looked like, from odd descriptions here and there and things he’d heard in passing, back when he bore the title of Lord Castiel Shurley proudly.

He still, Dean supposed, was Lord Castiel. Even if he went by Mr. Shurley, these days. Dean wondered if he’d still be able to call him Cas, now.

Dean hoped so.

Jess had thoughtfully arranged for the master suite of Winchester Hall to be redecorated. Dean thanked her effusively—he hadn’t thought about it until then, but sleeping here surrounded by his father’s judgment was bad enough, sleeping here surrounded by his belongings would only make it worse. Now, the suite was fresh and clean, a little empty, but Dean didn’t mind that—he could make it his own, he supposed, once he’d been here a while.

He should probably consult with Castiel, though, before he did much frivolous spending, and see what shape his accounts were in.

Once Dean was finally alone, his trunks and lunch brought up to him and the door shut against the party preparations beyond, he sank down into his mattress with a sigh. He’d rest until he had to dress for the party. Dean had never been one to employ a valet, preferring to dress himself—but he supposed that would be expected of him now, as an Earl.

Dean grimaced at his reflection in the mercurial mirror above the washstand across the room. He was rather wont to think that the title of “Earl” didn’t suit him well. He’d been more comfortable as “Colonel,” if he was really honest about it.

Weariness stemming from his long carriage journey up north from Portsmouth soon pulled Dean into sleep, and it was only one of the servants knocking on the bedroom door that roused him in time to dress.

Once his smart red jacket, sash, and epaulets were all in place, Dean reached for his hat with a sigh. He supposed he’d have to carry the damned thing; everyone present would expect the full regalia. Smoothing down the tassels of his golden epaulets one last time, Dean took a look in the mirror.

Yes, he looked damned handsome, if he said so himself. His dress uniform suited him.

He wondered idly if Castiel was interested in uniforms, before backing up a few feet and realizing he should probably find out if he was interested in men, first.

And what he looked like.

Shaking his head, Dean let out a low puff of air. He was being ridiculous, his thoughts swirling and whirling around about a person who may not even be able to stand the sight of him, for all he knew.

Dean took his frustration out on the door handle, gripping it rather too firmly before he strode out into the hallway, a calm, amiable countenance carefully erected.

Sam and Jess were already at the bottom of the stairs, ready to welcome their guests as they entered. Dean joined them, standing at the front of the line and spending the next thirty minutes bowing and exchanging pleasantries with every nobleman in the region—and lots of their eligible daughters, much to Dean’s chagrin. He gave Jess a small glance from the side of his eye—she was smiling serenely, as she often did, but Dean had known her for enough years to see the mischief about her.

“A pleasure to be here,” Dean confirmed to Lord Campbell (a distant and horrible relation) and his two children; a son near Dean’s own age, and a daughter six years younger. Six years too young, in Dean’s opinion, but girls did seem to be being rolled out onto the marriage mart quicker and quicker...or maybe he was just getting old.

He’d gone through plenty of flighty, giggling girls when he was a younger man and found that beyond a tumble in the hayloft, he cared little for any of them. A woman with a stronger disposition, a finer mind—yes, he could get behind that. Or, of course, a man with the same qualifications. His brother and sister-in-law were both well aware of that, and so Dean wasn’t at all surprised to see the mirth in his brother’s eye as he stepped up to Dean’s side.

“Here you are, Dean,” Sam said low, grinning secretly between the two of them as his eyes turned to the door. “I have a hunch that this is the one you’ve been waiting for—your epistolary steward, Mr. Shurley.”

Through the double oak doors that separated Winchester Hall from the warm summer night, in strode a tall, strong-shouldered man with tousled dark hair, softly tanned skin, and thighs that told of afternoons riding and walking, rather than sitting behind a desk.

He was handsome, by anyone’s standards.

Then the man approached, and he smiled at Dean, lighting up his face. His eyes were the most fantastical blue—Dean was certain he’d never seen it before in true life, only observed the strokes of such a color amongst the palettes of exquisite painters in galleries and books.

He was beyond handsome, Dean decided. He was beautiful. 

Sam spoke, but Dean was too focused on the overwhelming eyes before him and he barely heard a word. Only their guest’s own small smile and nod pulled Dean from his enchantment.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, my lord,” Castiel said, bowing with his hands neatly behind his back. His voice was deep and rumbling, and Dean wanted to know if it would sound even rougher in the morning.

Shifting his hat to sit in the crook of his other arm so that he had something to do beyond stare, Dean took a deep breath. It shouldn't surprise him, really, that Castiel in the flesh was just as beautiful as his soul was on paper.

Dean wished that Castiel had reached out to shake his hand, instead, if only so that Dean might touch him and ensure that he was real. Even though Castiel had kept his palms to himself, Dean shot his out eagerly, hoping the pause hadn’t been too long.

“Mr. Shurley,” Dean greeted, lowering his head—the name felt odd on his tongue, far too formal. “The pleasure is all mine, I assure you.”

Their handshake sparked a warm jolt from finger to core, like a release of bottled lightning.

Castiel—Mr. Shurley—parted his lips to say something more, but the clattering arrival of the widowed Lady Mills and all five of her daughters put a stop to further conversation.

Dean heard a suppressed giggle from his other side, only for his rascal of a sister-in-law to turn him towards her, dabbing imaginary drool from the corner of his mouth with her kerchief as she whispered in jest, “You have a little something there, m’lord.”

Sam gave out an ungentlemanly snort, before stepping forward to save them all. “Lady Mills! Such a pleasure. And the Misses Mills, of course…”

Dean was just as thwarted for the rest of the evening. He found his eyes pulling to Castiel whenever he was near, and more than once (he hoped, though he realized it may well have been wishful thinking) he caught Castiel turning his head swiftly as if he’d been caught in much the same action.

To do his duty as a good host, Dean made sure to change tables often, hoping that he might be able to play a hand or two with Castiel and talk to him a little, but fate was never on his side. Dean blamed it on the cards—he’d always been luckier at dice and billiards, anyway.

After several hours, Dean found himself standing in a group with Sam and Mr. Ketch, trying to keep up with their chatter about society despite having not traveled in it for over five years. His attention, suffice it to say, was wandering. He was looking over at a portrait on the far wall, trying to remember exactly which of his ancestors it was supposed to be, when he felt a faint prickle of attention at the back of his neck.

Turning his head immediately in the other direction, Dean caught Castiel red-handed. Spotted staring, Castiel blinked owlishly. Dean held his gaze this time, trying to get the measure of the man from a distance; a distance too far for communication, but close enough that the soft blush behind Castiel’s ears didn’t escape Dean’s notice. Slowly, maintaining their look, Dean offered Castiel a little smile—one that he hoped could speak to a variety of things, depending who viewed it. 

Their locked gazes held for a short forever, until Sam slapped Dean on his shoulder, laughing about something or other, and shattered...whatever that had been. Dean sucked in a breath, forcing himself to laugh along even though he was clueless, every fiber of his being except the physical already on the other side of the room with Castiel.

Oh, for goodness sake—Dean shook himself. What was the point of being Earl if he couldn’t use it to his advantage on occasion?

Swiftly, Dean gave a polite smile and ducked out of conversation with Sam and Mr. Ketch, and made a beeline across the room to where Castiel stood, punch in hand. He watched Dean approach with widening eyes, his impressive posture undulled even though his expression was somewhat unsure. 

“Excuse me, Lord Armstrong, ladies,” Dean bowed apologetically to the group Castiel was standing with. “I simply must steal my steward away from you for a moment.”

“Of course,” Armstrong said, his gray curls shifting as he bobbed his head, making him look even less turned out than a moment before.

Dean didn’t know Lord Armstrong well, but as he moved away from the small circle with Castiel at his side, he couldn’t help but think that his friend looked rather relieved to have been interrupted. Directing them to neutral ground, Dean headed for the drinks table so that he could refill his and Castiel’s punch while they spoke.

“Apologies if that was rude,” Dean said, “barging in like that, but I’ve been wanting to speak to you all night.”

Castiel gave out a small huffing laugh that barely crossed the distance between them. “I believe the Earl of Winchester can do as he wishes, in his own house, m’lord. Though any time you want to rescue me from the monologues of Lord Marv Armstrong, please, feel free.”

Again, Dean found that the formal terms of address sounded odd, coming from Castiel. But he wasn’t sure how to address it, so he settled for stirring the punch. “It was entirely selfishly motivated,” Dean said, “but a gentleman never turns down credit for a rescue, I suppose.”

Castiel held out his punch glass with another of the tiny smiles that Dean had noticed earlier—he didn’t seem prone to overwhelming outbursts of emotion, almost stoic, but his eyes...every time Dean dared to look into them, he drowned. They were deep, even if he kept the rest of himself carefully shallow. 

Once Castiel’s glass was full and Dean turned his attention to ladling his own back up to the top, Castiel cleared his throat. Softly, his voice quieter between the two of them, he said, “I hope you won’t mind if I say that we are all exceedingly glad to have you here safe, my lord. Even if the life of an Earl is less exciting than chasing Boney around France, everyone in the house is very happy to have you out of shooting range, finally.”

“Everyone?” Dean asked cheekily, flicking his eyes up to catch Castiel’s expression as he brought his cup to his mouth for a sip.

Castiel eyed him levelly, a little amusement swimming deep in his irises. “Yes, everyone. Myself included.”

“Do I need to apologize once again for worrying you?” Dean asked playfully, smiling over the top of his glass.

“Not at all,” Castiel said. “You simply need to stay.”

“Blunt, aren’t you?” Dean asked, grinning by then.

“One of my many faults, I assure you. Do you play Whist, my lord?”

“I do, but only because my preferred pastimes aren’t suitable for elegant card parties,” Dean replied, allowing himself to press a hand to the back of Castiel’s arm only enough to turn him toward a vacant table.

“Probably best to stick to Whist for your first night, then,” Castiel said breezily, though his smile was a little wolfish. “I must warn you, though—you won’t win.”

Laughing as he sat himself down in the vacant seat to Castiel’s left, Dean felt like—just perhaps—he already had. 

***

In the army, Dean had been forced to wake early every day to set a good example to all the troops in his regiment—and that didn’t even account for the fact that the clocks in France ran an hour ahead. 

Now that he was home in England, he found himself rolling around on the mattress in the weak minutes before sunrise, cursing that his circadian rhythms hated him so. He wasn’t a morning person, no matter what the clock said, though the perfectly warmed pot of coffee that Mrs. Harvelle had waiting for him always helped. Mrs. Harvelle had been the Winchester’s housekeeper for nearly forty years, and Dean was relieved that she’d stayed on after his father had passed—a familiar face, even that of a servant, was grounding and comforting in his new role here. 

Dean had been back at Winchester Hall for several days. He’d spent most of his time so far with his brother, catching up after such a long period apart. But today would be different; Sam and Jess had departed back to London the morning prior, and this would be the first day that Dean was truly alone here. Or, not so alone, perhaps—Castiel was due at the house at ten a.m. promptly, to meet with Dean in his study and begin to familiarize him with the workings of the Winchester Estates.

Dean had been looking forward to it all week.

He didn’t care much for administration, at least no more than he had to. He would do his duty, of course. But his accounts were, apparently, thriving under Castiel’s care—so he fully intended to confirm with the man, just in case there was any doubt, that his position here was for life, if he wanted it. 

Nervously pushing aside the idea that perhaps Castiel wouldn’t want to stay, Dean settled himself in his study to await his friend’s arrival.

When the maid from the front of the house opened the study door to admit Castiel—because Dean had not yet hired a valet or a new butler, nor was he finding himself inclined to either—Dean was waiting, steaming fresh tea already set by the window only moments earlier.

“Lord Winchester,” Castiel greeted Dean with a bow. He looked magnificent, Dean noted—no less so than he had at the card party. His navy jacket brought out his eyes, and his cream breeches caressed his thighs the way Dean wished he himself could. 

“Mr. Shurley,” Dean returned warmly, bowing his own head. As the maid departed and the door clicked shut, he couldn’t help but add, “though I do wish, at the very least when we are alone, that you would call me Dean; as you used to.”

Castiel’s eyes lingered on Dean’s face for a long moment before he blinked and looked down. “If my lord wishes, I will try,” he replied, formal but—the way Dean hopefully heard it—soft and warm.

“I do wish, very much. Come, please—have some tea with me. Tell me how you are.”

They sipped their way through their cups slowly, lingering on conversation. It was quiet and comfortable, and the only thing that Dean would change about it would be to have Castiel closer, not across the small tea table in the bay of the window. 

One thing at a time though, perhaps.

Once their thirst was sated, Dean moved to sit behind his desk. “I suppose I can’t put it off any longer,” he jested. “The numerical torture must begin.”

Castiel smiled with his eyes, even as he slid a thick ledger over toward Dean. “You must learn,” he pointed out. 

“I disagree, that’s what I have you for,” Dean said with a grin. “Many gentlemen have not a clue what goes on in their own business, you know.”

“And more fool them,” Castiel said dryly. “We’ll begin with the rents.”

They only lasted ten minutes with Castiel on the opposite side of the huge desk, straining over it to point out various names and numbers to Dean, before Dean shook his head.

“This won’t do. Come, bring your chair around and sit beside me. It’ll be more comfortable for us both.”

Castiel hesitated, but only for a moment, before lifting his chair and moving around the desk with it. “It will be easier,” he said, though Dean thought it sounded mostly like he was convincing himself.

Dean didn’t mention that, and instead shuffled his own seat a few inches to the side. “There we go,” he said soothingly. “Plenty of space. Now, how many cottages are on the east side of the grange?”

They settled back into work, though Dean was much more distracted than before—the occasional press of Castiel’s knee against his own as they leaned across the desk put him all aflutter, like a young maid. He’d have laughed at himself, if it hadn’t felt like perhaps—just perhaps—Castiel occasionally pressed his leg a little closer, chasing the solid warmth that Dean was so enjoying.

Once Castiel had given Dean an idea of all the rent collections across the lands that his family owned, they paused for Castiel to draw another ledger from the case on the opposite wall. 

“All of the books and records are here, in your study,” Castiel said. “Ms. Harvelle gave me permission to work here while you were gone, she’d let me in and out each morning to make my records of the previous day’s earnings and expenditures throughout the week. It was just easier, you see, than taking the ledgers back and forth from the steward’s cottage.”

“Of course,” Dean agreed, nodding. “And you must continue to work here, then.”

Castiel paused, his fingers resting on the leather spine of the thickest book before him. “If it pleases you, my lord, and that is what you would have me do, for now.”

“Cas,” Dean said gently, unsure but forging forward nonetheless, “of course that’s what I would have you do. You’ve been doing a wonderful job here. I’d be a fool not to keep you on.”

Castiel’s head rose, and Dean delighted in the relief and pleasure he could detect in his expression.

“Not to mention,” Dean added more quietly, “I enjoy your company, very much. And with my family all gone to London, I could use a friend.”

The tiniest flush rose behind Castiel’s ears, and Dean immediately decided that he would try and recreate it as often as possible. 

“Thank you, then. Of course, I will remain, and stay working here at the house. It will be my pleasure—I’m grateful for the employment, of course, but…” Castiel’s hand rose to push nervously through his hair, creating ever more attractive disarray. “I enjoy your company very much, too.”

Their gazes locked and held, and Dean could only think that in all his life and adventures, he’d never had a man so handsome share his shy smile. If this was all he could ever have, this warm and precious friendship, then he’d consider himself a lucky man.

He wanted more, of course. But who knew if Castiel had ever even considered—

“You should ride out with me when the new month begins,” Castiel said rather abruptly, his blush just slightly greater if Dean’s eyes were to be trusted. He cleared his throat and turned his eyes back to the book on the leather top of the desk. “All the rents have already been collected for now, but when they become due again, we should collect them together. Most of your tenants haven’t seen you for many years. I’m sure they’d like to.”

Dean nodded. “You’re right. I haven’t spent much time here since—well, even before I enlisted, my time here was limited.”

Castiel raised an eyebrow but said nothing—not wanting to push or forget his manners, Dean assumed.

“My father and I had a disagreement,” Dean explained. “I’d returned from my Tour and I was encouraged to court a reasonable enough match—the oldest daughter of Lord Braeden, from Herefordshire. But we parted ways, by our own decision, and my father never forgave me for it.”

Castiel blinked harshly. “Simply because you declined a potential marriage, on mutual terms?”

With a dry smile, Dean gave the smallest of shrugs. “Not so much because we didn’t marry, but because of my confession of the reasons why. Regardless, I was encouraged to enlist shortly after.”

Frowning, Castiel nodded his understanding. “But you enjoyed being in the army.”

“I was good at it,” Dean corrected. “I’d never felt accomplished at anything before. That was always my brother’s place—he has the intelligence, the beautiful wife, the book-smarts. I, well.” Dean chuckled. “I wasted much of my youth, looking back, and I have little but my title and my charm.” 

To Dean’s surprise, the corner of Castiel’s lip hitched up in a small, barely detectable grin. “Charm can get you a long way,” he said. “Or so they tell me; I’ve certainly never had it.”

 _Oh, I disagree_ , Dean couldn’t help but think as he gazed across at Castiel, though he at least controlled himself enough to bite his tongue against telling his friend that he, certainly, was very well charmed by him.

They returned to their work for a short while, Castiel breaking down a confusing-looking ledger that, it turned out, simply recorded the yields of the Winchester orchards year on year. They’d been falling for years, but sharply increased this last.

“What did you do?” Dean asked curiously, tracing his finger along the long-dried ink. “Clearly, this is because of you and your excellent management.”

Castiel shrugged dismissively. “I helped find the old orchard manager some new, younger help, is all. He can do a lot more work, that way. And the bees, too, they certainly helped the trees flourish this year.”

“You and your bees,” Dean couldn’t help but say fondly. Perhaps far more fondly than he should have—Castiel turned to look at him again, their legs pressed against each other beneath the desk, and the moment held.

The pinkish blush that Dean’s full attention seemed to pull from Castiel colored his neck, and Dean could only think of chasing it across his skin with lips and tongue and discovering how far down beneath his cravat the flattering color went.

Slowly, Castiel’s eyes drifted down from Dean’s own to his lips.

It was the tiniest motion, but as close as they were, Dean knew exactly what he saw. Carefully, experimentally, he let his tongue slip across his bottom lip to moisten it, imagining that he could just lean forward and—

“That’s enough for today, I think,” Castiel blurted, his eyes snapping upward, the color at his neck intense and obvious. He stood sharply, his chair skittering back across the rug as he moved swiftly around the desk and toward the door. 

“But we’ve barely begun! You don’t have to leave, Cas, surely.” Dean pushed up out of his chair immediately. He hadn’t meant to embarrass Castiel, of course not, certainly not when _Dean_ was the one who—

“Rather, I must. I have—I have work to do, rents to collect from the village. Good day, my Lord.” Castiel inclined his head and strode toward the door, only pausing to grab his hat from the stand beside it.

“Very well,” Dean said quietly, knowing that he could hardly keep Castiel here if he didn’t wish to be.

Neither of them mentioned that Castiel had already confirmed that the rents for the month were all collected. If Castiel wanted an excuse to be out of Dean’s presence, then Dean would have the grace to let him get away with it. 

The door clicked behind Castiel and Dean sat back down slowly. He’d tidy away the ledgers, he decided, and then go for a ride. A good gallop through the hills always helped him sort out his thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

**_Cas,_ **

**_It has been haunting me that perhaps I offended you somehow when we worked in the study at Winchester Hall the other morning, or that I did something to make you flee the property so quickly._ **

**_Please, if you are able, meet me at the stables this afternoon, so that we can ride together. If you can face me, I will offer any apologies you deem necessary._ **

**_A private ride through the hills and woods to the east of your cottage has always been my preferred way to settle myself. I would love to share my favorite paths with you, if you would have me._ **

**_Dean._ **

****

It was a simple letter, but one that Dean hoped would ensure Castiel’s presence that afternoon. He’d sealed it and entrusted it to one of Mrs. Harvelle’s staff, with the promise of a good word if they could get it to Castiel before he departed for his daily work after breakfast.

Dean finished his own meal quickly, before dressing and wandering down to the kitchen himself—much to the cook’s disgruntlement—to request a small picnic for his ride later that day. Either he would eat it with Castiel or only share it with his thoughts, but either way, pie was a must.

The afternoon came around swiftly. Dean spent his morning suffering through a visit from his cousins Campbell once more, smiling blandly at the dreary young lady they brought with them.

Perhaps she hadn’t been so bad, Dean admitted to himself on reflection.

Perhaps it was simply that she was not Castiel.

Regardless, Dean had dropped firmly into the conversation that he had no plans to take a wife, and his unwanted guests had departed shortly after, leaving him plenty of time to change into his best daywear and ask for his horse to be saddled. 

He’d worn so little beyond his military uniforms for so many years that much of his other clothing was a bit tight around the chest and arms, pulling across the extra muscle he’d gained on the battlefield. His moss green jacket and vest were serviceable enough, he believed, though he should probably avail himself of a tailor sooner rather than later.

He fixed himself a firm look in the mirror of his bedchamber, flashing a charming smile. Perhaps he was a little older and more war-worn than he’d been the last time he’d been dressing up to impress for quite this reason, but he still passed for handsome, he hoped.

Castiel’s reactions to him the other day seemed to indicate that perhaps Castiel appreciated what he saw, at least—and if Dean could use that to his advantage in getting Castiel to open up to him, to seeing whether there could be anything more between them…well then, he would certainly do so.

Settling his hat into place, Dean walked briskly down to the stables. There were only four horses housed in the long wooden barn beyond Winchester Hall’s vegetable gardens, these days; Baby, a black mare that had been Dean’s father’s who Dean was delighted to have inherited, Sapphire and Bramble, two older horses that Sam and Dean had ridden as young men, and now Connie, a golden mare that belonged to Castiel.

Back when Castiel had first written to Dean while he was out in Spain, before his long journey chasing Napoleon up through France when he’d thought that he might have to return home sooner rather than later, Sam had written to Dean and let him know that Castiel’s horse was to be sold off along with all the other property and chattel of the Shurley estate down in Devonshire.

To this day, Dean had never asked Castiel to explain any further what had happened—that was his own business. But he had instructed his brother to arrange to obtain the horse, and house her at Winchester Hall for Castiel.

No matter what ill times befell a man, Dean thought, he should never be parted from his beloved steed.

Castiel was waiting for him atop Connie now, near the lane, as Baby was brought out for him. The morning had been pretty, bright and full of sunbeams that gleamed on motes of pollen above the fields. Now, though, a few clouds had begun to gather, and a chiller breeze had begun to blow, making Dean glad of his green jacket no matter if it was well fitting or not.

Dean mounted, thanked his stable hand, and approached Castiel quickly.

“Good afternoon,” Dean greeted him warmly, lifting his hat.

“My lord,” Castiel greeted, bowing his head in turn. “Your letter arrived before I left to go into the village. I don’t know if the weather will hold this afternoon, but I would much enjoy a ride.”

Dean smiled, pulling Baby up alongside Connie. “Thank you for coming, Cas,” he said quietly.

“I should apologize—” Castiel began, but Dean cut him off.

“It doesn’t matter. Really. As long as you are not upset with me for some reason, think nothing of it.”

“Very well.” Castiel’s eyes rested on Dean’s own for a long moment before flicking down slowly, taking in his riding clothes. He seemed somewhat nervous still, looking away down the lane before he added, “You look well today, my lord.”

“I do wish you wouldn’t call me that,” Dean said gently, nudging Baby into a walk out along the path.

Castiel gave out a soft huff that could have been frustration or laughter, but he turned his gaze back to Dean as Connie fell into step beside Baby. “You look very well today, Dean. Is that better?”

“Much.” Dean grinned. “If you use my name like that, you may tell me that I look well as often as you wish. Though, I must disagree at least a little. War has filled me out some, I fear. I need to visit a tailor.”

Castiel’s eyes skimmed obviously down across Dean’s chest and arms, lingering before he looked self-consciously away again. “There’s an excellent tailor down in the village, a Mr. Matthews. I can make an appointment to bring him to Winchester Hall for measurements.”

“So, you’ll do the duties of my valet now, as well as my steward?”

Connie snorted and pulled at her reins as Castiel turned to Dean, wide-eyed. “Not at all, I only meant—”

Laughing, Dean directed Baby through a gap in the hedges that ran along the lane and into the field beyond, giving the mare her head when they moved onto the grass. “Cas, relax, please. I was only joking, though I’m sure you’d make an excellent valet.”

Pink at the back of his neck, Castiel remained at Dean’s side, his horse keeping pace with Baby as they explored the lush, emerald fields. “It’s not really the done thing you know, being as casual with me as you are.”

“And you would prefer me to be formal?” Dean asked, skeptical, resting his forearms on his thigh as he looked over at Castiel. “Even knowing each other as we do, having corresponded as long as we have? Would you have me call you Lord Castiel Shurley, and take no interest in you?”

“No, of course not,” Castiel said very quietly, talking to the back of Connie’s head. “I am…very fond of being able to call you Dean, and of being allowed to know you. But don’t you worry what people may think?”

Finally looking up, Castiel added almost as an afterthought, “And I’m not Lord Castiel Shurley, now, not really. It’s a hollow title. Just Mister Shurley.”

“I never did care much for what anyone thought. They’ve thought some wild things of me in the past—some right, some wrong, and I never much thought to correct any of it. Let people talk. I keep to my own.”

Castiel’s smile was warm as he nodded his understanding. “As long as you’re content, Dean, then so I am I. I have nothing to lose by impropriety, other than your friendship and employment, after all.”

“Will you ever tell me what happened?” Dean asked, nudging Baby to turn her toward the top of the hill.

Castiel stiffened in his saddle, making Connie jerk her head in complaint, but it was only for a moment before his shoulders slumped down. “I would have thought that you’d have heard. It was quite the juicy scandal, really.”

Dean shrugged. “Perhaps if I’d been in England I would have. We had a minor connection through Sam after all, and gossip travels widely. But overseas, I was blissfully ignorant. Any scandal there may have been will do nothing to alter my opinion of you, I’m sure.”

“Don’t speak so hastily on that,” Castiel said dryly.

Waiting, Dean pulled Baby gently to a halt at the top of the hill. Well trained and even tempered, Connie paused alongside.

After a few moments gazing down the other side of the hill at the woodland that spread out at the bottom, Castiel let out a small sigh, and began.

“As I told you in my introductory letter, my father had many gambling debts. He was a flighty man, prone to poor decisions. When he passed, my older brother Michael inherited, and began to try and fix the problems my father had left and face his creditors.”

Dean nodded along. So far, the story was simple enough, and while folks with nothing better to do would talk of it, it was hardly as scandalous or uncommon as Castiel seemed to believe.

“My brother’s methods of obtaining cash to keep us afloat while he negotiated with our creditors were…untoward,” Castiel explained awkwardly. He seemed to find the words easier when he looked down at his horse or out across the fields, so Dean let him be and just listened. “He was paid for favors and company. Michael warmed the beds of many Lords that you would know the names of, I’d wager, though he did not betray them, even after his discovery.”

Dean blinked, but forced himself to say nothing beyond, “He was discovered, then.”

Castiel nodded. “In the most awful of manners. A jealous paramour shot him, you see, in the middle of a party at a molly house in Whitechapel. He recovered, our good name did not.”

Dean couldn’t help the low gasp that fell from his lips. On top of losing his father and worrying about income, Castiel had endured the injury of his brother? Who could know there was so much beneath that stoic veneer? Dean was glad, more than ever, that he’d been able to offer Castiel a place to fall.

“Perhaps save your gasp until you know that I was there also,” Castiel said quietly, his eyes affixed on a far away tree. “Not as Michael was, perhaps, but there nonetheless.”

“You mistake my concern for judgement,” Dean said quietly, nudging Baby to step up to Connie’s side so that he could reach across to press a hand lightly to Castiel’s elbow. “I assure you; I would not think poorly of you for that kind of company. I understand it.”

Castiel’s eyes flickered back to Dean then. While his blues shone a little, his back was still straight, his shoulders held stubborn. He was a proud man, Dean realized, even if society saw him as less than he had been. Castiel’s gaze shifted back and forth, searching Dean’s eyes, something like relief edging into his tiny smile. Or perhaps it was hope.

“You are a good man,” Castiel said quietly.

“Far from it, by some people’s measure,” Dean replied, letting his hand slip from Castiel’s sleeve back to Baby’s reins. “But your good opinion matters more to me than any of theirs.”

Dean could see the little flush creeping up out of Castiel’s cravat again, at that. Oh, how he wanted to reach out and touch it, let the pads of his fingers trail up Castiel’s neck and below his jaw, press his lips to the—

“Now that the horses are warmed up, shall we race?” Castiel asked, his arm raised to point to a short tree atop the next hillock over from them.

Dean grinned as he pulled Baby slightly away from Castiel and Connie to give them some space. “I warn you, Baby is a prime beast—she’ll win!”

They spent the next hour thundering across the hills, grass flying at the horses’ heels as they raced to various landmarks, laughing and feeling free as the breeze whipped around them. Baby did win their first race, but Connie beat her to the post on the next. The sky grew darker, however, and Dean guided Baby back over toward Castiel, suggesting that they break and eat some of the treats Dean had in his saddle bag before the weather fully turned.

Flopping ungentlemanly down to the grass on one side of the hill, Dean offered Castiel slices of cook’s pie and cheese sandwiches, before tempting him with a little fortified wine that Mrs. Harvelle had carefully wrapped along with two tin cups. It was simple, and easy, and a peaceful moment between friends.

Watching Castiel’s tongue dart out to chase a crumb across his pillowy lips, Dean didn’t feel like the Earl of anything—only like himself.

“Thank you,” Dean said quietly.

Castiel tilted his head endearingly, and it filled Dean’s ribcage with a buzzing pressure to see it.

“For coming with me today,” Dean clarified. “For your friendship and attention.”

Dean’s heart thudded to a stop as Castiel leaned slightly into his space, raising a hand to Dean’s face. Shyly, Castiel murmured, “For you, my attention is easy to give, Dean.”

Against Dean’s jaw, Castiel’s touch was light and cautious. Dean wanted to turn his face into it, his breath hitching between them against his will—but it was only a crumb, a scrap of bread that dislodged under Castiel’s careful fingers and rolled down to the grass between them.

At Dean’s breath stuttering, Castiel’s hand froze, and his eyes sought Dean’s.

The Heavens opened.

With discontented brays, their idly grazing horses darted down the hill away from them as a clap of thunder tore the clouds and flooded the grass in the same instant. Dean and Castiel both let out a yell as they scrambled to their feet, laughing and complaining in equal measure. Dean reached for Castiel—he gripped his wrist at first, but then they were running down the hillside, galloping and slipping in the sudden mud as Dean pulled them to the foot of the hills where the woodland began in earnest, and their fingers ended up entwined so naturally that Dean barely noticed.

Both of them were holding onto their hats with their other hands, trying not to lose them as they hurtled, shouting, into the trees where their wiser and faster mounts waited for them.

Laughing, Dean turned to Castiel and they each leaned on the other under the moderate shelter of the old oaks and sycamores that made up the large copse. Their ribs heaved, and Castiel was looking across at Dean with a wide-open, amused glee that made his chest buzz all over again.

Helpless, Dean stepped up to Castiel’s front and righted his hat for him, before allowing his finger to slowly trace a running droplet of water down the side of Castiel’s face, over his strong cheekbone and down to the barest stubble that graced his jaw.

Castiel’s face turned more somber, but his eyes still smiled, and that was enough, for Dean.

“Cas,” he breathed out, not quite sure what he was saying, or asking, only that—

“Dean,” Castiel echoed similarly, a smile breaking out across his face which Dean only saw for an instant but felt for a little longer, as Castiel shyly pressed his mouth to Dean’s own.

It was a brief, soft kiss, but as Castiel pulled back—red and agape—to check for Dean’s reaction, Dean slid his hand further around Castiel’s jaw and tugged him gently back in for more.

Their lips were wet and cold, but their tongues were warm, and the noise of thunder and downpour couldn’t quite steal the sounds of their breathy gasps of pleasure, nor the softer notes of their eager mouths moving with more surety.

A particularly booming thunderclap drew them apart, and over to soothe their agitated horses. Castiel gestured on through the wooded foothills as he patted Connie soothingly.

“My cottage is just beyond this wooded stretch—we should get dry before we catch a death, all of us.”

Castiel looked so fantastically disheveled, Dean had to look away rather than make a fool of himself. Nodding his agreement, Dean hauled himself back up into Baby’s saddle. “A good idea. I hope you don’t mind my visiting so unexpectedly.”

Castiel’s smile in return was light and playful. “Not at all, my lord.”

***

The steward’s cottage, set on the outskirts of the Winchester estates, was a quaint building of sandy brick and ivy. Its frontage was cleared only to provide a paler backdrop to the beautiful flowers that filled its small garden, sprays of blueish larkspur and hearty bundles of multicolored snapdragons that made Dean want to pick the blooms and have silly, boyish fights with their snapping mouths. Dean remembered the cottage from when his father’s old steward had lived here—it was drab, and unfriendly, and cold-looking, back then. How it was now, warm and colorful and welcoming—that was all Castiel’s doing, Dean knew.

Even with the rain still coming down around them—though less torrentially, thank goodness—Dean stopped to spare a smile for the pretty, two-story frontage. Castiel took Baby’s reins from Dean’s hand and moved around to the side of the house, where he could tie both horses under shelter until the rain stopped and they could return them to the stables.

“The cottage is looking good with you as its resident,” Dean commented as Castiel reappeared, his brown coat dripping heavily and his hat drooping slightly.

“I am exceedingly grateful for it,” Castiel said, looking up at the exterior before he moved to let them both inside. “As I am for everything you have provided. I’m certain that my life would be much less comfortable if it wasn’t for Sam’s thinking and your generosity, Dean. I owe everything to you.”

While Dean knew that Castiel only meant well by his grateful words, they picked and poked at a deep discomfort that Dean found he simply must settle before they went any further with…well, with whatever Castiel wished this thing between them to be.

Dean had his hopes, but they’d hardly had time to speak of what this spark between them meant.

Closing the door behind them, Dean was assailed with the smell of drying cinnamon branches hanging in the entryway and a slowly warming stew from the kitchen to the left. Castiel’s generous salary gave him enough, Dean knew, for a local girl to come in as a maid of all work thrice a week. She cleaned and laundered and cooked, and today must have been one of her days to visit—but she was gone, it seemed, as there was no response to Castiel’s call as they entered.

Castiel walked ahead of Dean into the hallway, taking off his soaked hat and placing it down on the small wooden bench that ran parallel to the wall. He ran his fingers through this hair then, shaking his head like a dog before roughly pushing the wild mess back out of his eyes.

He turned, and Dean couldn’t stop looking at him, at the way the remaining raindrops clung to his skin and added a damp gleam to his pink, chill-brightened cheeks. He was so beautiful.

This man—the man he’d near enough fallen in love with just from ink on pages—turned out to be everything Dean had ever desired, and so much more. Dean felt full of it, full to breaking, and he just had to—

He had to _check_.

His heart couldn’t be in this alone.

With great reluctance and effort, Dean drew his eyes away from Castiel, off to the side. Nervously pressing his thumb into the side of his forefinger until it might bruise, Dean took a breath and bravely whispered, “Cas? I…I need to know if…if you feel _obligated,_ or—” Dean sucked in another gulp of air. “—anything like that. I realize that strictly speaking, I am your employer, and it would kill me if you thought—”

“Dean,” Castiel murmured softly, interrupting with his whole body as he stepped back toward the entrance. His brow wrinkled with the effort of his small frown, until he pressed his forehead into Dean’s own, backing him against the door as his hand moved gently to Dean’s cheek. “No, no obligation,” he clarified quietly.

Swallowing harshly, Dean felt his throat bob against Castiel’s fingers as his hand trailed down, across Dean’s neck to his shoulder and on over his shirtsleeve. 

“I _feel_ ,” Castiel said quietly, his voice full of the intense emotion he usually hid so well. The pads of his fingers danced further, down across Dean’s bare forearm in a tantalizing trail until they caressed his palm, then linked their hands together, entwined. “I _want_ ,” Castiel added, softer, but deeper.

Dean moistened his lips, suddenly parched and desperate, and locked his fingers between Castiel’s in turn. He nodded sharply, not trusting his voice.

Castiel’s breath warmed Dean’s lips as he said, “We wrote to each other for nearly a year and a half. We spoke of so many things, I feel like you know me best of anyone in the world, and I you.”

“Yes,” Dean agreed, bringing his empty hand up to rest on the small of Castiel’s back. “You weren’t ever just a steward to me, Cas. You were my reason to keep going at the bleakest and most frightening of times.”

For a moment Castiel’s eyes closed and he let slip a shaky breath against Dean’s lips. “I’m so glad you made it home to Winchester Hall, Dean.”

“I made it home to _you_ ,” Dean whispered, his own breath held. “And I’ll stay, here with you, safe…if you want me. For as long as you want me. It will be your choice, always. Just say the word.”

Castiel’s responding kiss was deeper and hotter than their kisses in the rain, and it answered perfectly.

Wrapping his arm more firmly around Castiel, Dean pulled him closer. He couldn’t stop his smile as he kissed back, trailing his mouth across Castiel’s jaw to his ear.

“While I don’t want to push or move too hastily,” Dean murmured into the soft skin at the side of Castiel’s neck, “it seems such a shame to miss the opportunity to say that we should both get out of these wet clothes.”

Castiel let out a low, rumbling laugh that Dean could feel up against him, and it was a sound he’d fight to repeat, every day. He was such a fool for this man…but there was a reason that jesters were so happy, he supposed.

“Miss Masters laid the fireplace upstairs, I’m sure,” Castiel said with a knowing smile. “The wisest course of action, surely, would be for us to dry off our clothes in front of it.”

Smirking back at Castiel, Dean allowed the excited thrill in his chest to spread and grow into a warm grin. He could barely believe this was happening, still. The feet that followed Castiel up the cottage stairs and along the small landing to the master bedroom may as well have belonged to someone else, because Dean was convinced that he floated.

The room was simple, with old polished oak furnishings and comforts in reds and browns. Castiel liked his space cozy, it seemed—the bed had more pillows and blankets than even the finest room at Winchester Hall. The fireplace across from the bed was laid ready, and Castiel moved straight to it, pulling down the tinderbox from the mantle and crouching down to strike the flint and steel.

Outside, the storm continued; wind whistled and whipped over the roof of the cottage and fat raindrops beat against the window panes. It made the room feel private and safe, like Dean and Castiel’s refuge from their roles beyond.

While Castiel saw to the fire, Dean walked across the room to the writing desk tucked under the window. The desk itself was clear of all but paper, wax and seal, and a tidy, practical quill pen. The small shelf above it, though, was covered in neatly tied bundles of paper, bearing broken seals and worn, smudged directions. The letters had clearly been handled a lot. Dean smiled across at them, unsurprised to see his own handwriting gracing the front of the topmost pile.

Dean reached out one finger, tracing it across the direction he’d scrawled while far, far from here. His heart felt full, pushing demandingly against his ribs.

A floorboard creaking betrayed Castiel’s approach. When Dean turned slightly to see him, he looked somewhat sheepish, his eyes flicking to the letters.

“I kept all of yours, too,” Dean said, wanting to put him at ease. It seemed natural to reach out for Castiel’s hand, to pull him close, to press their lips together again, soft and sure and with growing familiarity.

Castiel’s hand came up to rest against the side of Dean’s face, staying there silently for a few moments while they kissed. As they came up for air his fingers shifted, slowly stroking across his cheekbone.

“I had no idea you’d be so handsome,” Castiel confessed. “The portraits of you as a young man that hang in Winchester Hall do you no justice at all. The man I corresponded with…he was my best friend. And I cared for him deeply, more than was appropriate, I knew. But then you came home, and you reached out to greet me at your card party.”

Dean smiled, remembering for himself the awkward handshake he’d forced on the poor man in the foyer of Winchester Hall.

“I think,” Castiel added quietly, with a nervous chuckle, “that the moment I laid a hand on you, I was lost.”

At that, Dean simply had to kiss Castiel harder, and divest him of his damp jacket and cravat. He didn’t object, tugging Dean’s coat and waistcoat away from his shirt and only pulling away long enough to spread their outerwear before the fire.

Stepping back toward Dean, Castiel’s fingers landed on the ties of his undershirt. For a moment his gaze rested on his own hands, paused, before he looked beseechingly up at Dean through his eyelashes.

Dean nodded shakily. “Yes, please,” he whispered. 

Their shirts were fairly dry still, having been well protected under their layers of waistcoats and jackets…but it hardly mattered. They both knew what they were doing, here.

Once untied, Castiel slipped his fingers beneath the hem of Dean’s shirt. They had warmed from the efforts of starting the fire, and as they pressed against Dean’s chilled skin, he couldn’t help but let out a soft, happy groan.

Castiel fixed Dean with one of his tiny smiles and peeled the shirt up over Dean’s head in short order. Castiel’s own clothing started to follow, leaving a messy trail from the writing desk to the bed. When the back of Dean’s knees hit the edge of the heavy, down-stuffed mattress, Castiel met his eyes again, silently requesting before he guided them any further.

Dean reached up to splay his fingers across Castiel’s firm pectorals, skimming them lightly with the pads of his fingers before gliding on up to his collarbones. Dean’s eyes followed his hands, slipping across Castiel’s wide shoulders and down to his biceps. Castiel watched him explore, his lips parted and his chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. Gripping more firmly, Dean’s fingers wrapped around Castiel’s upper arms and pulled him down to the bed with him.

Their fall back onto the mattress was controlled, and they easily met at the lips again once Castiel’s piles of pillows had caught them. They were both nude by then, both hard and wanting, their bodies allowing none of the subtlety that society forced them into daily. 

Every sensation around Dean seemed heightened as Castiel stole his breaths—the solid weight of him above, one leg sliding sensually between Dean’s thighs as their hands groped and caressed at each other’s skin, the sounds of their lips gliding wetly across each other’s necks and shoulders, the warmth of the friction that began to build up between them.

“Cas,” Dean breathed out next to Castiel’s ear, his lips dragging on warm, rain-softened skin. “Can I touch you?”

He could feel Castiel’s rib cage stutter against his own with a gulped breath of pleasure, and it was amazing. Being with Castiel—Dean had been here before, in these embraces, his body so close to another man’s. But it hadn’t felt like this. 

In lieu of a verbal response, Castiel’s hand came to Dean’s, encouraging him downward. Their fingers slotted between each other’s as they trailed over Castiel’s length and wrapped around him. Castiel buried his lips in the crook of Dean’s neck, letting out soft grunts of pleasure, his hand moving to show Dean what he liked and how he liked it. 

Above Dean, Castiel shook softly as he strained to thrust into Dean’s hand—but Dean held Castiel’s hip firm, stroking with a steady, slow rhythm.

Castiel mewled with delighted frustration, lifting his face from Dean’s neck to press their foreheads together.

“D-Dean,” he stuttered out, “your hands, I’m—”

Pressing his lips to the soft, lightly stubbled skin of Castiel’s jaw, Dean shushed him gently. He didn’t speed up, didn’t let go of Castiel’s hip, didn’t change a thing. He just continued to hold Castiel close and carried on, worshiping his mouth as he pulled him steadily closer to completion. 

“Oh— _oh…”_ Castiel grunted against Dean’s lips as his hips twitched helplessly, his eyes losing focus as he spilled thick, stuttering spurts between them, the warmth dribbling down across Dean’s fingers.

“That’s it,” Dean encouraged, continuing to slowly pull at his length, softly coaxing the last drops from Castiel’s slit with his thumb.

When Castiel finally shivered and reached to draw Dean’s hand away, he brought their wet fingers to his mouth, cleaning away the sticky remains with sloppy lips and tongue.

The sight made Dean’s blood boil deep in his gut, his hips rolling up against Castiel’s thigh desperately. 

It was Castiel’s turn to shush Dean, then, before trailing his lips down Dean’s body as he shuffled back on his knees, until he could take Dean into his mouth. His lips were hot around the tip of Dean’s exposed head, and it was all he could do not to thrust up into the wet heat.

Castiel took him slowly, inch by inch, humming around the length of him until Dean could feel the tip of himself brushing the soft palate of Castiel’s throat. He made the filthiest noises that Dean had ever heard, sucking and gurgling in pleasure without ever choking, a feat that had Dean’s eyes wide and his thighs trembling.

He lasted far less time than he would have wished before flooding Castiel’s throat with his spend, his hand tight at the back of Castiel’s neck as he willed every drop further into him, like he could mark him from within. 

Castiel sucked in a deep, shuddering breath as he popped off Dean’s softening cock and nestled his nose into Dean’s groin, as if he was committing to memory the musk of him before he was done. 

Encouraged by Dean’s hands, Castiel came back up the bed. They exchanged salty, sweet kisses as their heartbeats settled, wrapped in each other’s arms as the storm outside slowly began to calm.

“They’ll be wondering where you are,” Castiel murmured into Dean’s neck after an interminable amount of time.

“Let them wonder,” Dean replied flippantly, reaching to pull one of Castiel’s blankets over them. “I want to stay here forever.”

“I wish you could,” Castiel replied. It didn’t sound like an indulgence, or even a regret—just a soft, loving wish that had Dean’s heart jumping in his chest. 

“Cas?” Dean pulled back enough to be able to study his lover’s face. “Do you love me?”

Dean was pleased to see that the flush he adored truly did travel down beyond Castiel’s neck, and much further.

“I do.”

“Then come home with me. Stay. Winchester Hall can have two lords.” 

Castiel laughed, but it was a sad sound. “Dean, you know we can’t.”

“Why not? Who would know, beside the servants of our house? Would it be so strange for me to move my friend and steward into a home as large as Winchester Hall, to stave off loneliness now that my family is gone? Mrs. Harvelle would keep our secrets, Cas, and dismiss any maid who would question the exact truth of the matter.”

Slowly, Castiel’s eyes brightened, gleaming a hopeful blue in the flickering firelight. “You really believe that?”

“I told you, Cas, I don’t care what anyone else thinks—I don’t plan to marry some girl for the sake of it, Sam and his children will inherit when I pass. And beyond him, I have no family left to disappoint.”

Castiel swallowed harshly, searching Dean’s face—for any sign of doubt or regret, Dean supposed—before he gave a small nod.

“Is that a yes?” Dean asked, his breath held. “I know I can’t replace your own home that you lost. I can’t ever marry you, or claim you as my own in any public way—but I can love you, and give you a new home, one you already manage as if it was your own.” 

“Yes.”

“Yes?” 

“Yes, m’lord,” Castiel agreed, rolling above Dean and capturing his lips. 

Dean couldn’t even complain at the title, his chest too full and his lips committed elsewhere. Besides, it was true. 

He was Castiel’s lord—and Castiel was his. 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed my offering for this year's SPN Regency Big Bang. 
> 
> If you enjoyed the vibe and think you'd enjoy a fic in a similar era but with a dash of Sherlock Holmes style monster hunting action, check out [The Curious Case of Cuthbert Sinclair](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945641/chapters/57586414). Or if you'd like something historical with a steampunk twist, maybe give [The Shadow in the Corner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20087974/chapters/47579047) a try!
> 
> I'm currently posting a WIP, [A Fish Out of Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26366776/chapters/64219966) (with art by the astounding lizleeships). If you'd like updates on that, or on my upcoming DCBB fic [Coffee, Tea, or Me?](https://deancasbigbang.tumblr.com/post/628712118356738048/title-coffee-tea-or-me-author) then please [click here to subscribe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/profile)!
> 
> I appreciate every single one of you. I hope you're doing well (or as best you can, in 2020).
> 
> \- Mal <3
> 
> P.S. On September 18th, I'm revealing a secret project that I've been working on with my friend EllenOfOz. [Want to come and guess what you think it might be?](https://twitter.com/mixtapebookclub)


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